Little Deaths in Musical Beds
by KLegnard
Summary: Just a quick steampunk/victorian Ryden ficlet, where Brendon is the poor street musician, and Ryan is the snobby rich kid with an abusive past.


"Take that, street rat!" The voices chanted at me as I regained my composure. Dusting the foul ashes off of my shoulder, I looked the cause of my fall in the eye. After giving him a once-over, I came to the conclusion that he wasn't from these parts. He looked classy, and snobby, like the rich uptown folk. Most likely, he and his gang of thugs were probably only visiting the slums to stave off boredom and cause trouble. Opposed to my height, this kid was tall, but not like his henchmen. He was thin, almost fragile looking, but after receiving those blows from him only seconds ago, I knew differently. My attacker swept a lock of straight, dark hair out of his face, and for a second, I thought I saw a glimmer of sorrow, possibly pain. Feeling sorry for him only for a moment, I spat in his face and ran, hopefully before he or his lackeys could catch up.  
.o0o.  
That kid... I wonder why he fought back. Most folks from the hell town usually throw you a glare, then retreat to their corners. It took me a while to wrestle him to the ground and pin him until I could send a few half-assed punches his way. I may have found a new plaything. First, though, I have to attend to a few things...

"Ryan! Get your skinny ass down here this second!" That would be my father, calling me downstairs for my next daily beating. Unfortunately,this time he has an excuse to be angry with me, which will most likely result in larger bruises and a longer healing process. Sighing, I descended the spiral staircase.

"Father?" I stood stone-still, barely breathing. It took all of my self control not to flinch when he stepped closer. Father raised his fist, and I turned aside to prevent a direct hit to my face. Fisting a clump of my hair, he forced me to look in his eyes, and this time, there was no way I could protect myself.

.o0o.

"Brenny!" The children called, gathering around my feet. This was the part of the day that I looked forward to the most. After a hard day of work at the factory, making guns, packing shells, these kids were always eager to listen to me tell a story or play a song. Not once yet have I ever turned them down, though the government doesn't approve of us being out at night.

"So, what do you want to hear tonight?" I propped Tommy, a six-year-old orphan, on my knee. Some of the children sat thoughtfully, while others jumped up and down, hands flailing in the air.

Tommy piped up, "Play us a song! Please?" Everyone else nodded in approval. "Play the buffalo song!" The Disloyal Order of WaterBuffaloes. That was one of their favorites. At least, out of the few popular songs I could play on my six-string.

As I started strumming, a child on my left started drumming with his fingers on the wall to his own left. Soon most of the gang of us street urchins was singing and dancing along. I had just reached the line "I'm a loose bolt of a complete machine" when-

"What's going on down here?! Shouldn't you lazy fuckers get busy dying?" The officer swung his club, which collided with the side of my guitar. The kids scattered, leaving me to face my doom, a trashed acoustic tight in my grip.  
"So, this is our little music protege?" sneered the cop. He lifted a pair of copper handcuffs and dangled them in my face. "Let's go."

.o0o.

The vanity was covered in makeup bottles, products spilling out of every drawer. The only upside of getting your ass pummeled every night by your father was getting to wear makeup. Originally, my only use for it was to cover scars and bruises, but lately I have been using it for more... Creative purposes. So long as my father didn't see me, it didn't matter if I added some nail polish here, or a design in eyeshadow there. Lots of people did it. Given, they were mainly girls, but whatever.

I finished adding a bronze outline to the gold lightning bolt I had skillfully drawn on my left cheekbone. I needed to look my best for today's activities. Jon and I were going to head down to the town's juvenile prison to haggle some of the inmates.

.o0o.

The cell was damp and cold, but compared to my room at the old inn, it was heaven. Because there was an overwhelming number of inmates, we were bunked four to a cell. At least I had company.

With me there was a tall, emo kid with long dark hair, and a blond kid with glasses who appeared to be his brother. Their names were Michael and Gerard, but the younger one went by Mikey.

They were here because Gerard, the starving artist, had depicted a scene of Lord Greyson being stabbed through the heart, and displayed it graffiti style on the side of an old tobacco werehouse. Apparently, Mikey had taken out the cop who came after his brother with a homemade clock-bomb, the latest in timepiece weaponry.

The other guy in their cell was a slightly pudgy kid named Spencer, who had been brought in for "noise pollution", the same charge as me. He had been playing drums on a street corner using a set of trash bins and kitchen supplies. I suppose I couldn't judge because my now dearly departed guitar was actually a modified cello that I had carved the f-key out of and changed the string setup. It worked well, but tuning was a bit difficult.

Just then, a loud clanging sounded from the front desk, and the set of French doors swung open. In stepped a greasy kid with a bass strapped to his back, which made it obvious he wasn't monetarily challenged, those things were hard to come by these days, and after him trailed a familiar looking boy with brown and semi-curly hair. He must have recognized Brendon, because he turned to him and declared:

" Hey! You're that little shit I beat the snot out of the other day!" Brendon groaned. Prison was bad enough as it is, being prison, but add a stuck up rich kid who has nothing better to do than make people suffer, and it's a living hell.  
Brendon rolled his eyes, hoping that if Ryan didn't get a reaction, he might go away. No such luck.

"Hey, I'm talking to you! So, you must think that acting out of your place is a smart thing for you little street rats," he paused, possibly for breath, possibly for dramatic effect, "but it isn't. Don't fuck with me, you worthless piece of-" Ryan was cut off by the officer from earlier.

"Hey! Wait until after he's no longer my responsibility before you beat the snot out of him, okay?"

Ryan sighed, turning away from the cell. Rolling his eyes with an air of sophistication, he dragged a reluctant Jon out the door behind him.

"So, you know that ass?" Spencer piped up from behind me.

I sighed, replying: "Unfortunately, yes. I do."  
Spencer made a move as if to put a hand on Brendon's shoulder, but instead shrugged and turned around.


End file.
